Poetry Archives

O clinging hands, and eyes where sleep has set
 Her seal of peace, go not from me so soon.
O little feet, take not the pathway yet,
The dust of other feet with tears is wet,
And sorrow wanders there with slow regret;
 O eager feet, take not the path so soon.

Take it not yet, for death is at the end,
 And kingly death will wait until you come.
Full soon the feet of youth will turn the bend,
The eyes will see where followed footsteps wend.
Go not so soon, though death be found a friend;
 For kingly death will wait until you come.